


escape

by XenomorphLiebe



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Tom Cruise Runs Real Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 21:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17050523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XenomorphLiebe/pseuds/XenomorphLiebe
Summary: Benji and Ethan spend a day at the beach.





	escape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middnighter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middnighter/gifts).



A warm breeze danced through the fluttering branches of the palm trees that grew parallel to the beach. Sunlight sparkled like diamonds on the sapphire waters of the ocean. The pearl white sand was smooth and cool against Benji's bare feet. The saltwater smell of the water mingled with the scent of jasmine that lingered in the air. In short, the beach was Eden come again...

...that is, if Eden came with assassins.

Typical, Benji thought, You stop one lousy wannabe Goldfinger from poisoning half of the southern seaboard, and suddenly, the whole world is out to kill you.

“Aren’t beaches supposed to be relaxing?”

The rat-tat-tat of the assassins’ machine guns punctuated his frantic shouts.

Ethan grinned.

“What? You don’t find this relaxing?”

Benji glared at Ethan—or, more accurately, he glared at Ethan’s (perfectly sculpted) backside. The other agent had outpaced Benji by at least ten metres. Despite the bullets whizzing past his head, Benji couldn’t help but admire the view. Ethan had superb running form: his core was tight, his back was perpendicular to the beach below, and his hands sliced through the air like steak knives through butter.

In contrast, Benji’s arms flopped around like pool noodles, and the shape of his back was more reminiscent of Quasimodo than it was of geometry homework. Benji gasped, and oxygen to trickle into his lungs, which seemed to be filled with magma.

He glanced ahead and saw nothing except seemingly endless, Sandals-worthy shorefront. Benji groaned and silently imploring every deity he could name for cover. Who knew? Maybe Thor was feeling generous today.

A sea gull glided into view, apparently undeterred by the deafening noise of gunfire and ATVs racing across the sand. An explosion in the nearby jungle caused Benji to stumble to the sea gull’s apparent amusement—at least, it squawking sounded suspiciously like laughter to Benji’s ears.

Of course, Benji lamented to himself, I pray for cover and Satan answers my calls.

“You alright back there?”

The sound of Ethan’s voice interrupted Benji’s rumination. Benji blushed as he realized that Ethan had a solid thirty metre lead on him.

“Yep!” He called back, refusing to make eye contact with the other agent.

Suddenly, another burst of gunfire kicked up the sand near Ethan’s heels. The agent dodged to the left, and Benji breathed a sigh of relief. He wished that he could send their assailants a fruit basket to express his gratitude. If Ethan had realized that Benji had almost died during a mission because his attention had been focused on plotting revenge against a goddamn _bird_ instead of on running for his life, then that would’ve been the end of Benji’s illustrious career as a field agent.

Speaking of which, where had Satan’s parrot flown off to? Benji looked around, but did not see the tell-tale grey-and-white of the seagull.

Perhaps it had taken shelter in the jungle, he thought. Benji wished that Ethan and him could do the same. Although the branches of the _Calyptronoma_ would provide excellent cover, Luther would never be able to find them in the dense foliage.

Benji winced as another explosion rocked the beach, sending the corpse of an unlucky ATV-rider flying further into the jungle.

Also, as the more foolhardy assassins were apt to demonstrate, the jungle floor was littered with landmines. Apparently, Dr. Evil’s eviler twin had decided that explosives were going out of style and had acted accordingly when decorating his lair.

Besides ensuring that the grounds of his base were more landmines than dirt, Lane’s fifth apostle had apparently gotten a killer discount of ammo, considering the number of bullets whizzing past Benji’s head.

Benji cried, “Where the hell is Luther?”

Ethan looked back and flashed him a look that was too complex to describe; it communicated something along the lines of: “I would shrug to indicate that I am unaware of Luther’s current whereabouts, but cannot because my ability to shrug has been hindered by the fact that I am currently running away from assassins who are hell-bent on killing me painfully” (and, if Benji was being honest, there may have also been a little “Now, shut up and run!” in there as well).

Benji cursed as yet another bullet flew past his head. He knew that he should’ve asked for more details when Ethan had asked if he had ever dreamt of visiting Cuba.

(Maybe then he would’ve figured out that when Ethan said “dream,” he typically meant “nightmare.”)

“You called?”

Neither the crackle of static nor the sound of machinegun fire could mask the familiar voice coming from Benji’s ear piece.

“Luther!”

Benji grinned as a helicopter swooped into view.

With a neon yellow ladder dangling from its side, the helicopter—a garish green and orange contraption, probably commandeered from a local tourist trap—hovered a few metres ahead of them (or, more accurately, a few metres ahead of Ethan).

As the distance between him and the ladder closed, Ethan leaped forward and grabbed one of the rungs with a single hand. The bastard didn’t even have the grace to break a sweat.

“Show off,” Benji muttered. He resolved to exercise more—maybe he would take up Ethan’s offers to exercise together, even though the mere thought made his muscles cry harder than a hopeless romantic watching _The Notebook_.

Benji glanced up. The helicopter was mere feet in front of him. Moreover, Ethan’s frantic beckoning told Benji that time was up. Benji closed his eyes as he leapt toward the ladder, praying that Ethan would catch him. Behind him, a grenade exploded. Benji braced himself as shrapnel and sand lashed his body. Congealing blood oozed from the resulting abrasions, and Benji grimaced as his exhausted muscles screamed bloody murder at him. Benji felt as though his body would mount a revolt to rival the French Revolution if he didn’t get himself to a bubble bath stat. The protests of his aching calves alone were _almost_ enough to make Benji long for the days when he was nothing more than glorified tech support.

His silent cursing turned to cheers, however, when Benji realized that, if he could feel pain, then he must be still alive.

Benji blinked, clearing his eyes of the debris kicked up by the explosion. He drank in the sight of azure, cloudless skies. Benji could make out the lazy flight of a lone seagull in the distance, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He decided that they could chalk this one up as another successful mission for Ethan Hunt and his Merry Band of Spies. (Eat your heart out, James Bond!)

Benji smiled up at Ethan, who grinned back. Then, Benji blushed as he realized that he was gripping onto the other man for dear life.

“Did you enjoy our day at the beach?” Ethan asked.

Benji hummed as he considered the question. When he replied, his tone lacked its trademark sarcasm.

“It was wonderful. Who wouldn’t want to spend a day in paradise with the handsome and heroic Ethan Hunt?”

Benji drawled the words “handsome” and “heroic” as he cuddled closer to Ethan.

He paused, then added, “I could have done without the assassins, of course.”

“Of course,” Ethan echoed. “Is there anything that I could do to make it better?”

Grinning, he replied, “You could kiss me.”

 (Later, Benji would tell Ilsa that he had been high on endorphins after saving the world and escaping assassins. Then, she would ask if this meant that Benji was Ethan’s Bond girl. Benji would blush and stammer, while Luther would answer, “Yes.”)

For now, however, Ethan murmured, “As you wish,” before capturing Benji’s mouth in a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the song "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)."
> 
> I'm pretty sure that Ethan Hunt's ideal date consists of couple's exercise sessions interspersed with some light espionage. You know what they say: the couple that spies together, stays together.


End file.
